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2005-03-24 - 1:15 p.m.

Like the man said, I always knew I had no small talk, and now I know I
have no big talk either. It's reassuring to know, though, that one of
the worst, shit-kicking, tearfully raw, snot-flyingly bad nights of
your life, when you look at yourself and see only a shallow pool of
something that could only loosely be described as cold muddy spew, can
get worse when you least expect it.

The storm passing, ducking into the store, which is just closing, to
grab a beer and cigarettes.

Me: "I'll just take these, please."

Young assistant: "I'm closing up, but I will make an exception for you
because you look like Phil Collins."

And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, the crowning turd in the
u-bend, and the night, in all its Technicolor glory, is complete.

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